


The Enemy

by wargoddess



Series: The Warden Arcanum [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:45:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wardens say "I'll see you soon", but never "Farewell."  Cullen sees no sense in this, and goes looking for Carver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after the events of "The Gate". If you don't feel like figuring out the meta, basically this is a continuity in which Carver has become a Warden, but he and Cullen formed a friendship and then became lovers sometime during Act 3 before endgame.

     For a moment Cullen thinks he might be hallucinating. That's the only thing that can account for what he's seeing: 

     Five junior knights -- Templars!  Men and women he trained, named, guided! -- are attacking one man.  The man is not an apostate, which is bad enough.  The man is Carver Hawke, which is ten thousand times worse than anything Cullen can imagine.

     And they've already bloodied him.  Carver's giving back as good as he gets, and three of the Templars are hanging back, dazed or nursing their own wounds, but as the remaining two press in Cullen can see that Carver is holding his side, and his face is white with pain.  He's out here alone on the Wounded Coast road, with no help in sight, and he thinks he's going to die.  Cullen can see that in his face, too.

     _Not bloody likely_.

     The man who's raising his shield to harry Carver on his injured side doesn't even see Cullen coming, though one of the downed Templars cries an alarm.  Cullen has warned them again and again about focusing only on the target ahead; a shield fighter's sides are always vulnerable.  The Templar pays for his error on the point of Cullen's sword, and Cullen's already throwing a Smite at the rest of them, targeting it carefully so that Carver is not affected.  Carver's other assailant is, though, and the man gasps and staggers once, which is all Carver needs to lop off his head.

     One of the three remaining Templars is just standing there, posture proclaiming her horror, when Cullen deftly disarms her and levels his sword at her throat.  He knows it is the most vulnerable point in any junior knight's armor.  She freezes.  The other two scramble to their feet, one of them awkwardly as his knee's been broken; through their helmet-slits he sees the wide white of their eyes.

     "You know who I am," Cullen says to them.  "I raised my sword against Meredith herself and lived to tell the tale.  Do any of you doubt that I can, and will, cut _you_ down?"

     The one with the broken knee shakes his head quickly.  The other murmurs, "Traitor," before his injured companion gasps and tries to shush him.

     Cullen feels a flash of heat, then cold, flow through him.  Behind him, he can hear Carver panting harshly, not moving; he is taking the chance to rest.  These _children_ have almost killed Carver Hawke.

     "I am loyal to Andraste," he says.  The blood pulses behind his eyes.  He wants so badly to kill them.  It will shock him, later, that he feels this, but in the moment they are no longer _his own_ ; they have become _the enemy_.  "Beyond that, yes, any Templar who serves merely the petty ambitions of men _should_ fear me."  He takes one step back from the one he's pinned, then gestures briefly with the point of his blade.  He does this despite the beat of his rage, because he has never been the sort of man to allow rage to control him.  "Flee, if you would live."

     Half a breath later he can see only their backs as they hobble away.  They do not even take their companions' bodies, leaving them for scavengers; shameful.  Templars should never run from --

     _evil_

     Cullen flinches.  He looks at the bodies, the scattered swords and shields bearing the Chantry's flame, and closes his eyes for a moment in grief. 

     But Carver is sagging to one knee, using his sword to stay upright, so Cullen files this sin away with all the others he must contemplate later.

     "Let me see," Cullen says, and it is a measure of how much pain Carver must be in that he allows Cullen to peel his hand away from the wound.  Even before Cullen sees it, he knows it's bad.  There's so much blood.  When he looks closer and realizes Carver's been run through, he begins to despair.

     "Fancy meeting you here," Carver says, and attempts a laugh.  It turns into a grimace.  Cullen immediately moves to help him lean against the cliff wall nearby.  "Oh, fuck, this hurts.  Little bastard sucker-stabbed me from behind -- said hello, walked past, then suddenly they were on me.  Where'd you come from?"

     "Kirkwall," says Cullen, trying hard to think.  He cannot go back to the city to fetch a mage.  There are no mages left in the Gallows anyhow, and the only apostate he knows is Hawke, who is no healer.  Worse, the chance that they might run into other hostile Templars on the way is high.  "I take it you were on your way to aid your brother?"

     "Yeah."  Carver's gone pale.  That's not good.  Cullen tries to think of what to do from prior experience of gut wounds.  He needs to bandage the wound to hold in his blood, then get him to a surgeon -- but where?  _Where_?  "Heard Anders blew up the Chantry, fucking wanker.  Knew your crazy-arsed commander'd be after Garrett..."  Then Carver blinks and frowns, realizing that Cullen is not where he should be, at that crazy-arsed commander's side.  "Wait."

     "Meredith is dead.  I have betrayed the Order and committed mutiny against her; Kirkwall is no safe haven.  Not any longer."  There is no time for this.  Cullen discards the worst options and settles on the only one that has a chance.  "I must carry you on to Ansburg.  Will your brethren have healers?"

     Carver's still staring at him.  "Yeah.  Yeah, but -- Fucking _Void_.  Cullen, it took me two days to get here from Ansburg, _without_ a fucking gut-stab."

     "Yes."  Cullen unlatches the sheets of chain that comprise belly-armor for Wardens.  Unconscionable that they do not wear plate!  But then, with their small numbers, perhaps they feel it wiser to exchange durability for agility.  "Let me bind this as best we can, first."

     "Yeah." Carver, too, is used to quick decisions in the field.  "Nnh... there's a spare shirt in my pack.  Tear it up for a bandage, maybe..."

     So Cullen does this.  And as he cinches the makeshift bandage tightly so that it might hold in what blood Carver has left, he must ignore Carver's barely-stifled scream, and the fact that the blood-streaked skin beneath his hands was once his to touch for entirely different reasons, and the fact that he doesn't know what he'll do if Carver dies.

     _Make sure he doesn't._  

     Yes.

     So he puts Carver's armor back on as extra protection for the wound, then wrestles the man to his feet.  Then they start walking, Carver leaning heavily on Cullen and trying -- Cullen can tell -- not to groan in pain with every step.

     They walk for hours, saying little.  Carver has to concentrate in order to walk, and Cullen can't talk while he needs every dram of breath to bear more and more of Carver's weight as the hours drag on.  The sun begins to arc toward the water and the mountains, and mists rise from the path, obscuring it beyond a few paces.  Cullen looks around, but they're well past the part of the Wounded Coast that he knows.  They've got to camp somewhere.

     "Up..."  Carver has to struggle to make himself heard.  That's not good.  "Up there.  Few feet... ahead, there's... a turning.  Uphill a ways, but... a cave.  Camped there.  Last night."

     So Cullen turns, and then it takes an eternal torment of struggling to get them up a steep path to the cavern that Carver has described.  It takes maybe twenty minutes.  But it's a good spot, Cullen realizes as they get within, and he leans Carver against a wall and looks around in the fading light.  The main cavern's around a curve from the cave entrance.  There's a rear outlet to the cavern that means a fire is possible; it's too small to let in the inevitable giant spiders and the like.  And Carver, perhaps anticipating using the cavern on his return journey, has already stocked it with a tiny pile of wood and tinder.

     "In my pack."  Carver's sounding better now that he's not walking anymore.  He's a blue-and-white shadow sitting against the lighter stone.  "Flint."

     Cullen's no good at this camping business.  With Carver providing instructions, and with a lot of scraped fingers and suppressed cursing on his own part, he finally gets some of the tinder lit.  It promptly goes out.  He gets it lit again, an eternity later, and then is lucky:  more of it catches fire.  He adds wood -- carefully, on Carver's insistence.  Perhaps Andraste is feeling merciful, because eventually they have a proper fire going.

     And then there's nothing else to do, all of a sudden.  Carver has no appetite.  Cullen makes him drink, at least, from the half-empty canteen.  Cullen's thirsty too, and his mouth feels very dry at the sound of the sloshing liquid, but he can wait.  Carver needs it more.  His eyes lock, however, on the small packets of rations that he's pulled out of Carver's pack.  He doesn't mean to ask.  It's only been three days, but...  "May, ah, may I?"  He gestures at a packet of some sort of wafer, and another of dried fruit slabs.

     Carver frowns.  "Yeah.  'Course." 

     And Cullen is on it in seconds.  He doesn't mean to be, but he's just so damned hungry.  He's wolfed down the wafers and is gnawing on the fruit when he happens to glance up and catch Carver staring.  Ashamed, Cullen stops trying to devour the slab whole.

     "S' all right," Carver says, softly.  "Have some water, too.  Won't do either of us any good, you falling down thirsty."

     Thank the Maker.  Cullen nods, hesitates a moment longer, then takes the canteen.  He allows himself three swallows, no more.  They're big swallows.  Maker, brackish water never tasted so sweet.

     "You're out here with no supplies?"  Carver's frowning more as Cullen settles back against the wall and makes himself chew the fruit, slowly.  "What the Void, Cullen?"

     Cullen takes his time chewing, searching for an appropriate response to that.  "After... Meredith, I could no longer bear to be in the Gallows.  Not one moment longer.  Everything I own belongs to the Chantry.  It did not seem right to take any of it."  He hesitates, then touches the breastplate of his armor.  "I feel I've earned this, and my sword, and my shield.  But no more than that."

     Carver nods, slowly.  In the firelight his expression is sober.  "And with Meredith gone, and all the mages with grudges -- and shit Templars -- running lose, you knew people would be after you."

     Cullen nods.  He'd felt it the instant the ferry touched down at the docks:  the city had turned, and no longer would it welcome the Templars who'd styled themselves its overseers for so long.  Meredith had been mad, but she'd also been strong.  Without her hand at the tiller... well.  The Champion was strong, too.  He would bring Kirkwall 'round.  But until he did...

     "I will admit that I did not stop to plan my travel," Cullen says, smiling a little ruefully.  "It seemed wisest to get out of town as quickly as possible.  I thought only of where I could go, not how I would get there."

     "Ansburg."  And when Cullen looks up at him, Carver's gaze is heavy and meaningful and it makes Cullen look away in sudden shyness.  "You remembered what I said about coming there."

     Oh, dearest Maker.  He _was_ heading toward Carver like some besotted maiden, hedging all of his future options on the vague hope that the man he's spent all of one night with will... will... what?  What is he hoping for?  What does he really expect?

     He is not ready to consider these questions.  Fidgety, Cullen abruptly gets to his feet and faces the entrance of the cavern, trying to push aside his consternation and focus on the here and now.  "I, ah, I shall take watch, of course.  You should make yourself warm beside the fire... Rest while you can..."

     "Cullen."

     "We must resume early tomorrow, and make as much ground as we can by daylight -- "

     " _Cullen_.  For fuck's sake."

     At that, Cullen reluctantly turns back.  Carver looks _exhausted_.  And pale.  And he is shivering a little, now that night has fallen; the fire's helping, but not much.  So when he offers Cullen a thin smile, Cullen knows what he's about to say.  "I can't go any farther, Cull.  You know it and I know it."

     Cullen stares at him, terrified and unwilling to admit it.

     "Nnh."  Carver shifts a little to get comfortable, and sighs.  "Won't be long, though."  He lifts a hand, bare now that he's hauled his gauntlets off, and Cullen notices an odd wooden ring around his smallest finger.  There's not much lyrium left in Cullen's blood, but when Carver waggles it, Cullen feels the prickle of it.  The ring is enchanted.  "Help's coming."

     Cullen blinks.  "What?"

     "Levyn.  The mage in my unit?  The one you almost killed, that day when the Arishok started his war."  Cullen inhales and scowls, and Carver smiles.  "He gave me this, so he could keep track of me.  He knows... if my blood's been shed, too.  And how much of it."

     Blood magic.  Cullen bares his teeth, then forces himself to speak in something that is not a growl.  "And this means... he will be coming?"  For whatever good a lone mage, even a maleficar Warden, can do.

     "All of them will be coming.  Stroud, Faren, a whole party.  Everyone thinks Wardens are so ruthless, but Wardens don't leave their own behind -- not when there's a choice."  Carver exhales.  "Not even when their own deserts them, haring off to help his damn brother.  Maker, I didn't even make it to the city."

     Reluctantly, Cullen comes back to the opposite side of the fire, where he crouches.  "Garrett is well."  And then because Carver's eyes alight at this, Cullen feels obligated to tell him the rest.  That his brother is probably Viscount now; without the Templars to stand in his way, there's little doubt the nobles will elect him to that position as soon as possible.  That Meredith was using some sort of dwarven magic -- yes, the very thing for which Varric Tethras' brother betrayed him, and the reason Carver ended up a Warden.  And then Cullen must tell the rest, working his way backward from Meredith's death.  Orsino's madness.  Meredith's order to kill Garrett, which Cullen defied.  The Right of Annulment.  The Chantry's destruction.  And all the little horrible things that led up to it, minor crises at the time -- screaming warnings in hindsight -- which Cullen could barely manage because his fellow Templars were trying to poison him.  Perhaps on his former commander's orders.

     All because he had spent one night making love to a Warden.  Cullen does not say this last part, however true it might be.

     "Flames," Carver breathes.  He's leaned his head against the wall to listen to the story, and his voice has gone blurry with sleep.  "And I thought us getting out of Ferelden was a saga worth a few tales."  He laughs.  "Don't ever tell Varric Tethras this stuff, or you'll end up a hero."

     "I am no hero," Cullen says heavily.  He gazes into the fire and wishes he dared remove his armor.  It weighs upon him, and he no longer feels that he deserves to wear it.  "I... there are things I allowed, Carver, while I had charge of the Gallows.  Things I regretted, questioned, but could not find the courage or wit to _stop_.  Not until I was forced to make the choice."

     "You didn't have to defend Garrett."  Carver's watching him.  Cullen can feel his eyes.  "You could've helped, when she decided to off him -- "

     "No.  I could not."  He looks up, finally, and dares to meet Carver's gaze.  Weak as Carver is, it still strikes Cullen like a blow.  "Garrett has been a friend to me, inasmuch as I have any friends.  He has done great good for Kirkwall, and even I have come to see that not all apostates have turned against the Maker.  They simply serve in different ways.  And -- "  He hesitates, but he has already embarrased himself this day.  And Carver may die, so he deserves the truth.  "And I could not have looked you in the eye, if I had turned against your brother.  That... meant more to me than obeying Meredith."

     Carver's lips curve, just a little.  Then he sighs and leans his head back against the wall.  "Wake me for a watch after four hours.  Do it, you arse."  He says this even as Cullen opens his mouth to protest.  "I can stay awake, and I can yell for you if there's trouble.  We won't get far if you're exhausted."

     Which is true.  So Cullen reluctantly agrees, and gets up to go stand his shift.

     Carver sleeps fitfully, Cullen notices, though he tries to keep his focus on the area outside the cavern.  (He can hear distant screeches; dragonlings.  He must re-bind Carver's wound in the morning to make certain they smell no fresh blood.)  He has heard before that Wardens are plagued by nightmares, but this seems like something more.  And when the moon hits zenith and he crouches beside Carver to wake him, he is shocked to feel a terrible warmth in his skin.  Carver is taking fever.

     But Carver comes awake readily, and scowls at the worry that must be evident in Cullen's face.  "I'm a Warden," he says, irritably.  "We all run a little hotter than the rest of you."

     He is lying.  But Cullen understands why he's lying, so he lets it pass.  He makes to move back to the other side of the now-low-burning fire, where he will curl up on the hard ground, but Carver's hand catches his arm.

     "Stay," Carver says.  Wistfully?  "You haven't touched me except to carry me about, or check my wounds, or see if I've a fever."

     Cullen is powerfully aware of this.  "I...  do not wish to presume upon you, Carver."

     "You did a lot more than _presume_ on me, once."  Carver's grin is a white flash in the dimness, and Cullen fears his face will outburn the fire.

     "Maker's Breath," he mutters -- but he's smiling.  It's been a long time since he smiled.  But of course, he only ever feels like smiling around this man.  So Cullen sits down beside Carver, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip.

     A moment later Cullen feels Carver's hand fumble for Cullen's.  Cullen's still wearing his gauntlets, but he shifts a little, awkwardly, and takes them off.  Then he puts his hand back where it was, and Carver's big hand wraps around it, fingers lacing together with Cullen's sweaty ones.

     "Go to sleep.  I've got it now," says Carver, and Cullen thinks he will lie awake all night, for fear and wanting.  But he is asleep in a handful of breaths.

#

     In the morning, however, Carver's fever is worse.  Cullen can feel that when he wakes.  And when he takes a look at the wound, as he's exchanging one set of inadequate bandages for another, he is shocked to see a disturbing pallor and mottling to Carver's skin, and the faint crawling lines of something that is more than mere infection.

     "That's the taint," says Carver softly, reading Cullen's face.  "That's what it looks like when it gets bad.  Don't worry about it unless it reaches my head."

     "Don't _worry_ about it?  Carver -- "

     " _That's what it means to be a Warden_."  Cullen flinches at his vehemence, but Carver is relentless.  "The taint makes us stronger.  It makes us _different_.  I'm not hungry right now, and I won't be; the taint feeds me.  It's probably what's keeping me alive now."  Then Carver looks away.  "But... if it reaches my head, then... that's it, then, I'm guessing.  It'll be the Calling, sooner than it ought, but it would've come along eventually anyway.  And me nowhere near the Deep Roads... flames."  He looks at Cullen, who is wondering what all this means, and his face is hard.  "I'd ask you to do for me if it comes to that, but that seems cruel.  I'll just fall on my sword."

     Oh sweet Andraste, he understands _that_.  "Carver."

     But Carver only smiles, reaching up to grip Cullen's shoulder.  (His hand shakes.  Cullen tries not to notice.)  "It won't come to that.  Stroud and the others will get here.  You'll see."

     So Cullen can do nothing but hope.

     It's obvious now that Carver can't be moved.  Walking will only re-open the wound and spread his taint farther.  So Cullen goes out, and prepares them for a sustained encampment as best he can:  he gathers deadfall and uses his sword -- grimacing the whole time at the abuse of the weapon -- to chop apart a small dead tree.  He finds a stream that probably isn't contaminated with the Maker knows what, and uses it to slake his own thirst and fill Carver's canteen.  He has no idea how to go about catching animals or finding edible plants; any effort he makes along those lines is as likely to kill them as help.  He has spent his life locked in a tower or staring at a gate in the Gallows.  He's just glad he hasn't set himself on fire with the flint yet.

     This takes most of the morning.  And as Cullen drags back in with his arms full of wood and the canteen sloshing on his hip, he stumbles.  There were steps at the entrance of the cave for a moment, weren't there?  But now they are gone, and the wood scatters across the floor, and he says a very bad word and immediately regrets it.

     Carver watches him pull himself back together, silently offering him a small log that hit his leg.  Cullen grimaces and takes it.  "My apologies."

     "You're out of lyrium?"

     Damnation.  He'd hoped it was not obvious.  "Not out."  He feeds a small log to the smoldering coals, hoping it will catch, and settles down beside Carver, unbuckling his breastplate.  In a pocket of his gambeson, which sits right below his pectorals where it will ostensibly be safest, there is a single vial of lyrium remaining, three-quarters full.  "Your brother gave me two of these when I left Kirkwall."

     "What's your usual daily dose?"

     Carver's so matter-of-fact about it.  Cullen looks at him in surprise.  In the Templars, no one talks about the lyrium.  It is a shameful thing, that they must use magic to fight magic... and more shameful that it makes them crave and shake and fear ever leaving the Templars.  But perhaps if Carver must deal with something like the taint, lyrium addiction seems a small thing.  There is neither censure nor prurience in Carver's face, so Cullen finally, shyly, says, "Two vials."  As Knight Captain, the second vial was a privilege -- and a tighter leash -- that Meredith pressed on him.

     "A day?  And you've made that last three days so far?"  Carver grins.  "You're sodding amazing, Cullen.  But you need it now, yeah?"  His smile fades.  "You're seeing things, aren't you?"

     Cullen licks his lips, and sighs.  "Yes.  I went without yesterday, hoping labor might suffice to stave off the symptoms, but... well."  Carefully he uncorks the vial, lifts it to his lips -- noticing the smell, the tingle against his fingers, the _glow_ of it -- and takes one sip.  Just one, and a small one at that.  He caps it again quickly, tightly, to protect against spills.  No telling when Carver's friends will arrive, and Carver needs him lucid, until then.

     Oh, but Maker, it burns his throat so beautifully as it goes down.  It sends a whisper of magic all through his limbs, his fingertips -- and when he fleetingly glances up to see whether Carver is watching, the sensation changes in a way that he has never felt before.  He _wants_ through it.  The tingle settles in his nipples, in his rapidly-filling cock; it lingers on his lips, stirs his belly, makes his balls tighten.  He looks at Carver and remembers their night together and hopes, oh how he hopes, that Carver will survive this and still want him.  That Carver will not think him a mad fool.  That he will consent to be with Cullen, even just once more...

     But Cullen could have the pleasure of him, though, in a way.  With another swallow.  He could feel warm, welcomed, beloved.  All with one deep gulp.

     _ull_

     He's looking at the vial, and it feels so heavy in his hands.  There's plenty in there.  One more swallow wouldn't hurt.

     _ullen_

     He licks his lips, but they do not taste like Carver.  With another swallow, perhaps they might.

     " _Cullen!_   For fuck's sake!"  A hand grabs his arm, jolting the song of the lyrium, and for a moment Cullen's lust turns to something savage.  He jerks his arm free and glowers at Carver and almost, almost, almost, snarls _Mine_.

     But this is _Carver_ looking at him, his face worried and sheet-white because -- oh, Maker -- Carver has forced himself up to his knees in order to reach Cullen, and that movement has surely reopened his wound because he is all but shaking with pain.

     Cullen thinks, _I want you, not some blue dream of you_.  And that is enough to drive the madness away.

     "Oh, Carver, you mustn't -- "  He drops the vial of lyrium and quickly catches Carver before he topples, because it's obvious that he's going to.  Cullen gets him back into his sitting position against the wall, and fumbles at the bandages to see.  Yes; they are soaked through crimson now, and the mottling of his skin has spread to cover nearly his whole torso.  "Oh, bloody Maker.  What have I done?"

     Carver's panting shallowly; he utters a weak laugh.  His face drips sweat.  "So fucking glad... I didn't become a Templar.  The look on your face.  Maker."  He shakes his head.  "Almost rather the taint than that."

     "It is a chain."  Cullen fights despair as he rants, as he takes the bandages he washed earlier and presses these against Carver's wound in hopes that the bleeding will stop.  "It is their leash on us, I have heard others whisper it but never wanted to admit it, I am so very weak and you have paid the price for it."

     "Shhh."  It makes no sense that Carver's hand comes up to touch Cullen's face, that Carver is comforting him even as he lies here dying.  "There's a... price for all power.  S'not weak to... admit that."

     And then he falls silent, and his hand drops away.  Cullen catches his breath and touches Carver's throat, his heart in his mouth.  But there is a pulse there yet, weak but steady.  Carver is simply unconscious.

     His skin is clammy.  He's _cold_ , despite the fever.  Is that the taint, or shock?  Cullen tries to remember what he knows of wounds.  The spirit healers would sometimes put up the feet of injured people; would that help?  It cannot hurt.  Cullen shoves a log under Carver's boots and scrabbles for the tinder he brought, blowing frantically on the fire to build it up.  Once it's burning steadily, he pushes Carver closer to it.  But Carver is still shivering.

     There's nothing else Cullen can think to do.  He yanks off his plate armor and pulls off his heavy padded gambeson-robe, draping it over Carver.  Carver might not appreciate wearing the Chantry's flame, but if that flame can keep him warm, then Cullen will never again allow himself to doubt the Maker.

     Night has fallen; Cullen needs to stand watch.  But it is more important that he be sure Carver is warm and still breathing, so instead of getting up he arranges himself beside Carver, shivering a little without his robe as the night grows cooler.  Eventually Carver's shivering ceases, and Cullen thanks Andraste.

     He falls asleep again in spite of himself, and they are lucky that nothing attacks them in the night.  So it is only in the morning when Cullen gets up that he realizes the lyrium vial he dropped has shattered against one of the rocks of the fire circle, draining all its contents away into the ground.

#

     All through the next day, Carver does not wake.  He's still breathing, so Cullen opens his mouth and tries to dribble a little water into it.  This makes him choke and spit it back, but Cullen hopes at least a little went down his throat.  When he pulls down the robe to massage Carver's throat and encourage swallowing, however, he sees that the mottled creep of the taint has reached Carver's neck.

     And then he sees the black lines spread, and move like serpents, and wriggle up over Carver's face and onto Cullen and down his arms and --

     Cullen jerks himself out of the hallucination, and rubs his face, and resumes trying to get Carver to drink.

#

     When will the Wardens come?  Carver has promised that they will.  Carver needs them.  Carver.  Carver.

     Cullen sucks in a deep breath and tries to focus.  It's night again.  Carver must be protected.  Cullen will need to stand watch.

#

     Things become very confused, for a time.  But through it all, Cullen forces himself to remember two things.  _Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter_ , is one of them.

     _Carver must live_ , is the other.

#

     Something happens.  Many things happen.  Wardens Carver stand watch protect.

     _Carver must live_.


	2. Chapter 2

     Cullen jolts awake all at once, and does not know where he is.

     The room around him is vast and dim, lit only by a hearth fire that's too far away to provide much warmth.  Cullen sits up and finds himself in a large, comfortable bed.  Blankets of linen and bear-furs slide off him.  Underneath, he's naked, and clean.  He frowns and feels his face itch.  Someone has even shaven him.  They took too much off the chin, but otherwise did a passable job of things.

     There is a stir at the side of the dark room, and Cullen tenses.  "Don't kill me," says a voice he does not know. "Don't Smite me, either, now that you've got lyrium in you again.  I haven't done any blood magic to you, or whatever you're likely to think of me."

     It is the blood mage -- Carver's blood mage, the Warden in his unit.  The mage stops several times as he comes across the room, lighting lanterns along the way -- with his fingertips -- and this slow progress allows Cullen to step down from _kill him now_ to _watch_.  Which is perhaps what the mage intended.

     That is not important, though.  "Carver," Cullen blurts.

     The man stops, his lips quirking.  In the light he is a typical Circle Mage:  thirtysomething and bookworm-pale and not very fit.  But he's wearing shabby old robes which no Circle Mage Cullen knows would ever be caught dead in, and his black hair is too long for practicality -- not if fire spells are part of his repertoire -- though he has at least tied his back in a queue.  His eyes are narrow and shifty -- or perhaps that is simply how Cullen cannot help seeing him, knowing what lies beneath this benign veneer.  The mage is also familiar, though vaguely.

     "Carver's alive," the man says, and Cullen exhales.  But his next words reignite Cullen's alarm.  "He's not well, though.  The taint almost overwhelmed him before we got to you.  You didn't help matters, standing guard at the mouth of the cavern and attacking anyone who came near.   Took us three hours to get past you; raving lunatics really shouldn't be such good fighters."

     Cullen inhales, horrified.  But.  Well.  "I was... not myself."

     "Oh, I don't know about that.  You seemed very clear on what was important to you:  defeating your enemies -- especially the blood mage one -- and protecting Carver."

     Yes.  "I hope I did not hurt anyone."  Or delay Carver's treatment in a fatal way.

     "You gave Stroud a headache shield-bashing him, and laid out Derwyn completely, but they're all right.  I just stayed back and harried you from afar with weakening-spells, what few I could get to take.  I know what your kind can do."  The man reaches for Cullen's face and Cullen flinches and comes so close to Smiting him that his teeth ache with it.  But the man freezes, apparently realizing this, and it is the fear in his face that makes Cullen relax.  So the man exhales too.

     "I'm a healer.  I just want to check on how you're doing."

     "A healer _and_ blood mage?"  Cullen would laugh, if the idea were not so monstrous.

     "It's not beyond the pale.  In Tevinter, most blood mages are also healers, for obvious reasons..."  The man chuckles weakly at Cullen's expression.  "Not that that's helping my case.  Well."  He clears his throat.  "Magic's magic, is all I figure.  It's what you do with it that matters most."

     Carver's words, albeit in a different form.  It is reassuring enough that Cullen finally nods, and the mage reaches up to brush his fingers across Cullen's brow.  "Ah, good.  The last of the withdrawal symptoms seem to have loosened their grip on you.  Still a bit dehydrated... and you could do with a few good meals, but otherwise, you're healthy." 

     He smiles, squinting a little as he does so, and Cullen suspects he is not so much shifty-eyed as horribly nearsighted.  It is a common affliction among Circle Mages, which this man obviously was at one time.  And that, plus thinking of this man as a younger apprentice hunched over a library book, finally twigs Cullen's sense of recognition.  "Jowan."

     The man goes rigid, his face horrified and furious, and for just a moment _Cullen_ is afraid.  Then the man exhales, and the anger fades.  "Ah.  I thought you looked familiar.  I tried _not_ to know most of the Templars at Kinloch; helps that the younger ones wore helmets all the time.  You, though -- I remember you now.  You didn't always wear your helmet."  The mage smiles, with a hint of bitterness.  "You're the one who had the crush on Solona."

     Cullen never thinks of her face.  "That was a long time ago."

     "Tell me about it."  The mage sighs and goes over to a nearby table, sitting down in its chair.  "I always used to tease her about you, you know.  Tell her to, well, _cultivate_ you.  Never hurts to have a friend or two in the Templars, favors for favors and all that, and at least you weren't a bad looker, or the kind who likes hurting people.  But she always said no.  Didn't want to use you."

     Cullen draws up his knees and folds his arms around them.  Kinloch, Kirkwall, they are all the same beneath the surface.  "I would rather not discuss this."

     "Hn.  Me, either."  The mage sighs.  "My name is Levyn, now.  Jowan is dead.  If you don't mind."

     Cullen does not mind at all.  "Levyn, then.  I am Cullen, if you did not know before."

     Levyn waits a moment.  "Not 'Knight something-or-other' Cullen?  Thought all your Templars had names like that."

     "No."  Cullen wishes this mage would leave.  "I am no longer a Templar, just as you are no longer a mage of the Circle."

     Levyn snorts.  "Nobody quits the Templars."

     "I have."

     A surprised sort of silence falls.  Then finally, awkwardly, Levyn clears his throat and gets to his feet.  "Well, ah --  I'll go let Stroud know you're well.  There's clothing in the cabinets if you want it, and food in the dining hall.  Out the door, to the right, follow your nose."

     "Where is Carver?"  The words are out before Cullen thinks to speak them.

     Levyn's looking at him in a suddenly-shrewd way that makes Cullen uneasy.  "He's in the infirmary, with our two best spirit healers looking after him.  Let them be, for now; it's touch-and-go enough without you there distracting them."

     Cullen's jaw tightens, but he does not protest this.  "What is this place?"

     Levyn blinks.  "The Ansburg Warden Keep.  Sorry, thought you knew.  We brought you back along with Carver; figured if you were raving over him that much, you probably knew him."  Levyn's giving him that look again.  "You aren't just somebody he met along the road."

     Cullen takes a deep breath to stifle irritation.  "No.  Beyond that is my business, and not yours."

     Rudeness works where reticence has not; the mage scowls.  "Fine.  But just remember:  Carver is our business, _Templar_."  With that, he sweeps out.

#

     Cullen finds clean used clothing in the cabinets that ranges in size and cut, but some of it fits.  He pulls on a decent set of shirt and tunic and trousers, but there is no sign of his armor anywhere.  He supposes it does not matter where it has gone.  He no longer has the right to wear it.

     Then he makes his way to the dining hall, a cozy mid-sized room where he finds six or seven people lounging.  Not all of them wear Warden gear, and those who do aren't always wearing it _right_.  Cullen stares at an elven woman who's wearing a kind of tabard of chainmail which leaves the curves of her breasts and sides completely bare -- how can she just wear chain against her _skin_ like that? -- until she turns and glares at him and he quickly looks away.  No one troubles him as he puts food on his trencher.  It's surprisingly good fare, and there's an astonishing amount of it:  tender, fatty stewed beef and vegetables, crusty and fragrant bread, a soup of wild leeks and mushrooms.  No one speaks to him -- until a bald, earring-bedecked dwarf comes over and plunks himself down on the other side of the table.

     "Maker turn His gaze upon you," Cullen says politely.

     "Tell your absent ghost father to keep his gaze to himself," the dwarf snaps, which so confuses Cullen that he doesn't have time to be offended.  "Who the sod are you?"

     Cullen stares at him for a full three breaths.  It's clear at once that this dwarf is nothing like the ones Cullen has spoken to before -- genteel, honeymouthed representatives from the Merchants' Guild who came to the Gallows to beg or buy favors from Meredith.  But he has _killed_ dwarves like this, whenever he finds lyrium smuggling rings.  They are invariably the ones with these garish brands on their faces, and a hardened sort of look in the eye.  Well, he has heard that the Wardens even take criminals.  Cullen scowls.

     "I am Cullen," he says, allowing a degree of brittle coldness to edge his voice.  He prefers to be polite on first impressions, but he does not have to be.  "And you are?"

     "Faren.  _Warden._   And I want to know why the fuck a _Templar_ is in our Keep."

     "I assume that I am here," Cullen replies, "because you brought me here.  I did not choose this; I was, as I have been told, a raving lunatic at the time."

     The dwarf, amazingly, grows angrier.  He slaps both hands on the table and lunges to his feet.  "You got no right to be here!"

     Cullen rises as well, though he is unarmed and unarmored and the dwarf has two knives and leather scale.  But a gentleman must address insults or be thought a coward, and Cullen will do what he must with his fists and his Templar abilities and his teeth, if he has to.

     "Enough, Faren."  Faren flinches, though Cullen does not move or take his eyes from the dwarf.  Thus he hears rather than sees the big man who leads Carver's group -- the Orlesian with the handlebar moustache -- come over to the table.  Stroud, Cullen recalls; Carver has mentioned his name before.

     "It was my decision to bring him in," says Stroud.  "Have _I_ no right to decide who is welcome in our walls?"

     "They're killing us out there, Stroud."  The dwarf gestures toward the walls.  "For all we know, _he's_ the one who ran Carver through, and this crap about him being lyrium-addled is just a ruse to win us over!"

     And all of a sudden, Cullen understands.  The Templars who attacked Carver; this was not an isolated incident.  But why?

     He isn't aware he's murmured this aloud until both men look at him.  " _Why?_ "  The dwarf's hands ball into massive fists.

     "Hold," says the Orlesian.  "Faren, Knight -- hmm.  _Ser_ Cullen is _formerly_ of the Kirkwall Circle of Magi.  He is no longer a Templar -- and indeed, rumor has it that he has turned against the Chantry, slaying Knight Commander Meredith with his own hand."  The Orlesian's gaze is hard, measuring; Cullen isn't sure _what_ he's measuring, though.  "Is that true, Ser Cullen?"

     "He did what?" asks the woman in the tabard. Cullen hears others in the room murmur and exclaim and turn their attention toward the tableau.

     "It is true enough," Cullen says, trying not to look defensive.  They're all looking at him, and some of them are as angry as the dwarf.  "In the particulars, she killed _herself_ with dwarven magic --

     "Dwarven _what_?" asks Faren.

     " -- but I will not deny that I meant to kill her.  We all did, those of us who fought her.  She was mad."

     The Orlesian nods.  "That is nothing more than has been said of her for years."

     "Yes."  Cullen sighs.  "Well, I imagine the Chantry will soon be shouting the names of her 'killers' to the four winds, if they have not begun already.  As for the rest," he looks pointedly at the dwarf.  "I met Carver on the Wounded Coast, being set upon by five Templars.  They were, I am sad to say, Templars from my own city, though they were of one of the less-savory factions which my late commander... allowed, before her death.  I joined Carver in fighting them off, though he had already been injured; we killed two and sent the rest packing.  Then I carried him to the cavern where you apparently found us."  He turns to the Orlesian again.  "I do not know why they attacked him, however."

     "How can you not _know_?" demands another woman, before Stroud holds up a hand, and sighs.

     "We will get nothing done with this bickering.  All of you, as you were.  Ser Cullen, please come with me."  He turns, and Cullen follows.

     They settle in what appears to be a well-appointed small library, where Stroud takes one of two large plush chairs by the fire.  There's a tea service on a table between them; he pours for himself and Cullen, when Cullen nods.  The tea is excellent.  It's all very Orlesian.

     "What you apparently do not understand," the man says at last, "is that for the past several days -- probably since Meredith's death -- word has spread throughout the land that a Grey Warden killed Grand Cleric Elthina."

     Cullen blinks.  "Well, yes.  Though I do not believe Anders was an, er, _active_ Grey Warden, at the time.  In my few unfortunate dealings with the man, he seemed wholly devoted to the cause of mage freedom.  I rather suspect he abandoned the Wardens for that reason -- your goals did not coincide with his."

     "Sadly true."  Stroud's lips twist in an unpleasant smile.  "However, that is a distinction the Chantry has failed to make, in its statements about the incident.  Those statements do not even mention his affiliations with demons, the Mage Underground, or other apostates such as the Champion.  Just the Wardens."

     "But that..."  And then Cullen understands.  Oh Maker, it is monstrous.  "They mean to make enemies of the _Wardens_?"

     "An Exalted March has already been proposed, in fact, though I am told there is considerable debate in the Divine's councils about this, in Val Royeaux.  I suppose we should be glad a debate even exists, given the Wardens' involvement in the Fereldan succession, Anders' participation in the Chateau Haine incident -- "

     "If Anders did anything that did not directly benefit mages, then that was at the Champion's behest," Cullen says, shaking his head.

     "Yes.  Well, as I said, there are nuances to all of this which have been -- deliberately -- ignored.  If the Chantry actually declares a March..."  The man sighs and sips his tea.  "The Chantry has no real concept of how the Wardens operate, or how dangerous we can be.  We would not choose war; the darkspawn are the enemy we are meant to fight.  But to that end, the Wardens _must_ continue, and we will do whatever is necessary to ensure that."

     And given the circumstances, no wonder the other Wardens are nervous of Cullen's presence.  Cullen grinds his teeth and gets to his feet, pacing restlessly in front of the fire.  "Maker's _Breath_.  I cannot believe this, and yet..."  He stops, and his shoulders sag.  "I have seen already how corruption can hide beneath the most righteous of justifications.  Perhaps what is happening should not surprise me at all."

     "Indeed."  Stroud eyes Cullen.  "We have met escaped mages from Kirkwall, who tell of its Knight Commander and what really happened there.  And they tell of its Knight Captain... who _apologized_ to those mages, and told them to flee, after risking his life to save as many of them as he could.  This too is true?"

     Cullen shakes his head.  The world he has known all his life is ending, and these Wardens all want to discuss minutia.  "What does it matter?" he demands.  "Why do you ask me these things?"

     Stroud crosses his legs, casual.  "A former Knight Captain of the Templars would make a valuable Warden.  Doubly so, under the current circumstances."

     Cullen turns to him, surprised -- and suspicious.  Carver has warned him against this.  "You want me to become a Warden?"

     The Orlesian smiles.  "Perhaps.  Provided that you are capable of seeing the greater picture beyond _Warden_ and _Templar_.  This is about Thedas.  It is about making difficult choices, in which there is no good outcome -- only the chance to save as many as you can.  If the rumors of what you did in Kirkwall are true, then you are indeed capable."  He pauses.  "And what are your intentions by Carver Hawke?"

     Cullen tenses, caught off-guard by the sudden change in tack -- as doubtless Stroud meant him to be.  So Cullen opts for honesty, sensing that it is perhaps a test.  Except... what can he say?  He doesn't even know if Carver wants him now that he is penniless and rootless and _here_ , instead of an occasional lover to be visited elsewhere. 

     "I... I would court him, ser," he stammers at last, and feels his face grow hot.  "If he will have me.  Beyond that, I have no thought."

     Stroud considers this with a decided lack of surprise.  Then, to Cullen's surprise, he sets aside his teacup and rises.

     "Carver faces a Warden's fate right now," he says.  "The taint has been advanced prematurely, and there is no telling whether he can fight it off.  Even if he can, however, he will live no longer than any other Warden -- a decade or two, three if he is fortunate.  No more.  That is the price of what we are."

     Cullen inhales, horrified.  But that means Carver will not see fifty...  "He never told me."

     "No, it is a secret we Wardens keep to ourselves, normally.  I should not have told you.  But here is the matter, Ser Cullen:  you are a liability to him no matter what happens.  If he dies now, he becomes merely another Warden martyred in the fight against Chantry tyranny, and you become a footnote in his tale.  If he lives, he cannot be with you."

     "But -- "

     "The wrath of the Chantry follows you, Ser Cullen.  You must run if you mean to survive; any place that harbors you for long will suffer for your presence.  Except here."  Stroud smiles thinly.  "As we Wardens have already earned the Chantry's enmity.  But this place -- Carver's place -- is for Wardens."

     And then Cullen understands.  He exhales, heavily.  "You will protect me, you mean, if I am a Warden."

     "As you will protect us.  You are the Chantry's most infamous defector, now -- and as such, you have become a powerful symbol for all who are disaffected with the Chantry's ways.  There are other Templars who lament that the Circles have become prisons.  Perhaps even the rebel mages will join us to fight for a Templar who showed contrition and mercy."  Stroud steps closer.  "And I would hope that here, you might find purpose again.  It is not so different, fighting darkspawn, fighting abominations; both are corruptions of magic and creation.  Two sides of the same coin."

     This is something Cullen has already come to understand.  And... was it not something he had begun to consider anyhow, on the walk toward Ansburg?  There are other options; he could hire himself out as a mercenary, though doubtless he would need to change his name and appearance to elude Chantry hunters.  He could hire on with raiders, travel overseas and join some foreign nation's guard or militia...  There is always work for a strong warrior, somewhere.  But where would be the honor in doing these things?  He has been a sword of the Maker; could he bear becoming merely a sword for hire?  He craves purpose.

     Many kinds of purpose.  Cullen closes his eyes.  "May I see him?"

     "No."  When Cullen turns to frown at him, Stroud adds, "He isn't conscious, for one.  For another... he would tell you not to do this, if he could.  Any Warden would."

     This makes no sense.  "Then why do you ask it of me?"

     Stroud turns away for a moment.  On the other side of his chair, in an alcove that Cullen has not noticed before, a silver goblet stands on a small table.  Stroud picks this up and brings it over.  Even without knowing what is in the cup, Cullen feels the magic of it -- and the foulness.  He steps back, inadvertently; its essence crawls over his skin like insects.

     "This is the Joining cup," Stroud says softly.  "I had it prepared because... I hoped.  This is what you must take into yourself, if you mean to be one of us.  It is what is already in Carver -- and you have seen what that means, for him.  It may kill you immediately."  He pauses, significantly.  "But if you survive..."

     Cullen can again be part of something worthy of his sword.  The Wardens enslave no one, protect everyone.  And...

     _To fight at Carver's side_.  It is perhaps a selfish motivation.  But that does not make it meaningless.

     He takes the cup from Stroud's hands.

     "Join us, brothers and sisters," Stroud says, stepping back.  There is no one else present, but the words have the weight of ritual.  In spite of his resolve Cullen pauses to listen to them, gazing into the black murk within the cup.  "Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day, we shall join you."

     Cullen frowns at him; Stroud falls silent.  Waiting.

     So be it, then. 

     Cullen lifts the cup, and drinks.  And as visions of horror descend upon him and he feels every nerve scream as if the lyrium in his flesh has caught fire, as the blackness within the cup envelops him and claims him and swallows him whole, as the suppurating pit of death forms somewhere beneath his soul and threatens to engulf his entire being, only one thought holds him intact:

     _Carver._


	3. Chapter 3

     He becomes aware again, slowly, because of shouting.

     " -- no _sodding_ right!  We don't need more Wardens, for fuck's sake!  There's no Blight, I don't give a shit if the Chantry's gone crazier than usual, you're just another fucking greedy Orlesian -- "

     Carver's voice.  Cullen pushes through a black cloud of weariness towards full waking.  As he does this there are other voices, some of which he recognizes:  the dwarf Faren, the elven woman, the blood mage, Stroud.  These are mere murmurs, however; he cannot hear them clearly.  Carver alone speaks loud enough to penetrate the fog, though even this is intermittent.

     " -- took advantage of him!  I can't believe you... _fucking Void_ , Stroud!  This isn't -- "

     The fog begins to lift.  Cullen inhales and makes himself open his eyes, though this takes great effort.  He recognizes the ceiling:  this bed again.  But there are many people in the room with him now, and the lanterns are all lit, and there is the sound of scuffling and a blow and shouts of alarm all around him.  This, at last, pulls Cullen fully awake, and pushes himself up on one elbow to see:

     Stroud is on the ground rubbing his jaw and looking disgruntled; his lip is split and bleeding.  Carver -- alive, oh Andraste -- stands above him, struggling to charge forward and hit him again, though half the Wardens are holding him back.

     "I am relieved to see you making a full recovery, Warden Lieutenant," Stroud says in an acid tone. "But perhaps if you can leave off beating me senseless for a moment, you will notice that your friend is alive, and awake, and watching you lose your reason right now?"

     Carver jerks upright, turning as much as his captors will allow.  They all turn too, staring at Cullen; Cullen sighs and sits up fully.  There is an awkward moment of silence.  "Carver," Cullen begins, at last.

     "Not a word."  Carver shakes off the people holding him, though this is ineffective; Cullen can see how weak he still is.  He's wearing only a robe, so Cullen notes that the mottling is gone from his neck and chest -- but there is still a hint of it in the lower half of the robe's open V.  Near where the wound was.  Cullen hardly has the chance to feel relief, though, because Carver points at him, and he is furious.  "Not a _sodding_ word.  I _told_ you not to do this, and you didn't _listen_.  You should have stayed with the fucking Templars where you belonged!  Are you really so besotted with me that you would -- "  He chokes the words off, shaking his head, and Cullen flinches, stricken.  But Carver isn't done.  "You're going to die alone in the dark, now, same as me!  With monsters eating at your mind and your flesh turning to shit, and -- _why would you do this to yourself_?  Oh, fuck, leave me alone, I can't deal with this -- "

     He shakes them off again, successfully this time, and storms out of the room.  Everyone stares after him, and then they all turn back to stare at Cullen, who sits where Carver has left him, gutted. 

     In the silence, Stroud sighs and gets to his feet, thumbing the blood away from his mouth.

     "I keep hoping," he says dryly, "he will become less... _high strung_ with maturity.  Alas.  Well, Ser Cullen."  He nods to Cullen, who nods back, hollowly.  "Welcome to the Free Marches Wardens."

     It should make him feel something, Cullen reflects.  Part of something.  But all he feel is hollowness, and all he can think is, _Carver does not want me_.

     Well.  At least... at least Carver is alive.  That is what matters most. 

     "It is my honor," he says softly, and manages a thin smile.  He doesn't think they believe him, but they welcome him anyway.

     The elven woman, whose name is Velanna, tells him that he has been unconscious for a night and a day, which is the only reason Carver has recovered enough to pitch a fit about his Joining.  Then she brings him to the armory, where Cullen is bidden to select armor for himself.  Once he is kitted out -- perhaps one day it will feel right to wear so little plate, or carry such a small shield -- the dwarf shows him around the Keep, explaining that they have their own compound within the city of Ansburg, and that they are safe from Chantry threats, for now, because the Duke of Ansburg is a close ally to the Wardens after they saved his son. 

     Cullen does not fully listen to all of it.  It's hard to concentrate, when so much feels so strange.  There is a whispering in the back of his mind, which does not trouble him so much as it probably should.... but he has had worse things in his mind, after all.  And all at once it occurs to him that he feels no craving for lyrium.  He should; it has been two days since his last dose.  What does that mean?  He isn't sure what to think.

     Perhaps the dwarf notices his silence, because abruptly he ends the tour at the door of an apartment, to which he hands Cullen the key.  "This is yours," he says gruffly.  "Keep it locked; we've got some thieves in the group who can't shake the itchy fingers.  They'll probably steal your shit anyway -- new guys get hazed a little, usually -- but they'll be offended if you don't at least try to make it a challenge for them.  So, g'night."

     He turns away, and Cullen frowns.  "To where shall I report, in the morning?"

     Faren turns back.  " _Report_?  What, you think this is the army?"  He shakes his head.  "Go see Stroud if you want to be useful or something.  Otherwise, he calls us when he needs us.  Get some rest while you can."  Then he's gone.

     Cullen goes into the apartment.  It is luxurious compared to what he had in the Gallows:  several rooms, elegant furnishings, a hearth that has been lit already by the Keep's servants, a lovely view of the city skyline through its lone window.  Cullen moves through it and tries to tell himself _this is mine_.  He has earned it, or he will, spending his remaining life in battle against evil.  But it doesn't feel right.

     He racks his armor out of habit -- marveling all the while that it feels so light, so insubstantial -- and then there is nothing for him to do.  He's standing in the middle of the space, feeling more lost and alone than ever in his life, when there is a knock at the door.  He has had enough; he does not bother answering it.  Instead he slumps onto the couch that is supposedly his, and puts his head into his hands, and tries to grasp the enormity of the mistake he's made.

     "Cullen."  It's Carver, and for a moment Cullen's heart leaps.  But no.  He has been foolish enough about this.  Carver thinks him a lovesick fool, and he _is_.  That is the true shame of it.  But he does not have to humiliate himself further.

     "Cullen, sod it.  I know you're in there."  When Cullen still does not move, there is a sigh on the other side of the thick wood.  "Maker, I never figured you for a sulker.  That's more my speed."

     Cullen cannot bear this.  "Leave me be," he says.  "You have made your feelings clear.  I shall not trouble you with my own."

     Another heavy sigh.  "Yeah.  About that.  Ah...  Look, Cullen, I'm sorry, all right?  I just... I wouldn't wish being a Warden on anyone.  Especially not someone I, ah, I... care about."

     Cullen's belly clenches.  No.  He is not listening.

     After a pause, Carver says, "I'm not going anywhere.  And I'm tired, for the Maker's sake.  Almost died, you know.  If you don't open the door, I'll have to sit down on the floor outside."

     Cullen frowns.  Does Carver really think this childish attempt to use guilt will convince him?  "Perhaps you should just return to your quarters, Warden Lieutenant."

     There is a pause; Cullen hears nothing, but it feels like a _shocked_ pause, somehow.  When Carver speaks again, he has abandoned guilt and apology and pretense; now his voice reverberates with emotion and alarm.  "No.  'Cause I know you.  You're in there making yourself over all formal again, like you were for _years_ while I kept trying to, to pour my heart out to you, and if I let you do it now I'll never get close to you again, and _life's too short_." 

     Cullen's throat tightens.  Carver rants on.  "Even though this is -- you being a Warden is -- I never wanted that for you, Cullen, because it's a horrible life, but...   When I first came here, for years all I could think was how I'd promised you I would join the Templars.  And I'd remember... the look on your face that day, when I said it.  That's when I knew or, or started to hope, anyway.  I mean, I realized... um.  That it wasn't just me."

     The words are rambling, but Cullen knows exactly what he's talking about.

     "Maker."  Carver chuckles.  "I actually used to dream about... about what if you came here, and were a Warden with me.  Then it would be almost the same, yeah?  Us both as Templars, or us both as Wardens.  The dark's not as scary when you don't have to face it alone..."  He trails off, and then his voice hardens.  "But then I'd think about you doing the Joining and _dying_." 

     He falters silent again.  Cullen is listening now.  He hears every word and inflection.

     "I've seen it happen.  I've seen good people die choking, their eyes full of the Void.  And I had nightmares about it happening to _you_.  So when I realized what Stroud had done, I...  Do you get it?  It was the nightmare.  But now I've had a minute to think, I... I keep thinking...  You're alive.  You came through it all right, and you're _here_.  This is... the good dream."

     Oh, Andraste.

     Carver falls silent, and Cullen sighs.  He gets up, goes to the door, and opens it.  Carver is actually sitting on the floor; he looks up in surprise, his face alighting, as Cullen stares down at him.  Then Cullen extends a hand to help him up, and he rises and comes in, but when Cullen tries to let his hand go, Carver won't release him.

     "Remember what I said last time," Carver says, low and intent.  He steps closer; Cullen steps back only because Carver's crowding him.  Then suddenly they're both against the wall and Carver is so warm against him, all over him, and Cullen inhales because everything, _everything_ that Cullen hoped for, is in Carver's face right now.

     "Wh- what you said?" he manages.  His mouth has gone dry.

     Carver nuzzles his ear.  "If I see you again, I'm yours again.  Remember that?"

     Cullen remembers.  And he aches.  But he will not be led by his heart or any other part of his body, however desperate those parts of him are for any sort of completion.  "Are you certain?"  Cullen has to clench his teeth for a moment, lest he take back the words immediately.  "I will not hold it a promise, if you have changed your -- "

     Carver curses and suddenly Cullen no longer has to worry about his mouth being dry.  The kiss is raw and ruthless and Carver does not taste good.  He's just out of sickbed and he still smells of it.  And the kiss is not what Cullen remembers, that combination of force and urgency that was so arousing last time.  Carver's too weak for that.  But the tenderness and the hesitancy, that's there again, and he clutches at Cullen's arm in a way that is almost desperate, which is new.  Last time it was Cullen who could not stop touching.

     And when Carver pulls away to search his face, Cullen knows he has not made a mistake again.

     "I'm certain," Carver says.  Cullen has to think for a moment to remember what question Carver is answering.  Then -- oh.  _Oh._   He reaches up and cups Carver's cheek.  Carver leans into this with a heavy sigh.

     Cullen swallows.  "You aren't well."

     Carver sighs.  "Yeah.  There's some medicine I need to take, back in my room.  Tastes like dead dwarf arse, but..."  He shrugs.

     Cullen takes a deep breath.  This is surprisingly terrifying.

     "Come."  Cullen lifts Carver's arm -- since Carver hasn't yet let go of his hand -- and angles himself to support Carver under the shoulder.  "I'll help you back there."

     Carver's room is on the other side of the Keep.  Inconvenient, and probably speaks to the other Wardens' suspicion of him.  Indeed, Cullen sees a few of the Wardens double take when they pass, wondering why their Warden Lieutentant is leaning on the lyrium-addled madman, the Templar who tried to kill him, the enemy.  Will it make trouble for Carver when they realize what Cullen really is to him?  Perhaps Cullen should be more mindful of appearances.  He tries to adjust their posture, put a bit of distance between them aside from the shoulder.

     Carver makes a sound of annoyance and drags him close again until they both almost trip.  "Quit that.  Fuck 'em."

     "The chain of command -- "

     " _Doesn't matter_ , Cullen.  Not to Wardens.  Anytime, any one of us might have to go raise an army, save a country..."  He stumbles a little; Cullen can feel the strength running out of him.  "Anytime, one of us might feel the Calling.  We're generals and condemned prisoners all in one.  Long as the darkspawn die, we do what the fuck we want."

     Cullen shakes his head, a little horrified by the impropriety of it.  He has thought of the Wardens 'til now as Templars who watch darkspawn instead of mages; instead they are little better than undisciplined pirates.  And yet... Templars do not live under a delayed death sentence, and no green recruit would be expected to face down an army -- as the Hero of Ferelden did, when she successfully defeated the darkspawn horde.  Responsibility... and the freedom to fulfill that responsibility however he sees fit.

     He could perhaps like this Warden business, in time.

     They reach Carver's room, which is messy and smells of him in a way that makes Cullen ache with quiet memory.  Carver takes his medicine -- a cup of something that looks almost as evil as the Joining elixir -- and then asks Cullen to help him wash, because "Maker, I stink, and anyway you like watching me bathe, right?"  His grin is too weary to be lascivious, but it makes Cullen blush anyway.

     It is unromantic, though.  Carver's wound has been healed, Cullen sees when he gets their clothes off, but the mottling has yet to fade in the spot where the injury was.  There are other mottled patches, too:  the back of his neck, the backs of his knees, his armpits.  Cullen stares at these, realizing suddenly just how close Carver must have come to the Wardens' undeath, and just how devious Stroud is.  The Orlesian could not have expected Carver to survive, if the change progressed this far.  It is clear now he wanted Cullen not as an addition, but a replacement.

     Carver blinks up from the stool when Cullen rinses him.  "Hn?  What is it?"

     "I am thinking," says Cullen, scowling, "you were right to strike your commander."

     Carver chuckles.  "Damn right I was.  Stroud's a good man, but he's been a Warden a long time.  The old ones... they see things differently."  He sighs, sobering.  "Guess I can't blame 'em."

     Cullen nods and rinses himself quickly, as it made more sense for him to simply share the bath with Carver rather than risk getting his lone set of borrowed clothes wet.  Then he helps Carver into the tub, where Carver falls asleep in the water and is in danger of drowning until Cullen shakes him awake, half-drags him to the bedroom, and rolls him into bed.  Cullen is turning away, looking for his clothes, when Carver says, "Hey."  And when Cullen turns back, Carver has a hand held out to him in silent invitation.

     Cullen can no more resist this than he could the taint.

     He climbs in; Carver pulls him close.  They sleep, and Cullen expects terrible dreams, but with the scent of Carver's hair in his face, none are apparently possible. 

     And in the morning when Cullen wakes, Carver has thrown off the covers and is touching him gently.  Just smoothing a hand over his arms, his belly, pressing his face against Cullen's hair.  It is nothing sexual, and yet Cullen is achingly hard, his body leaping to conclusions.  He tries to tell himself to settle down, Carver's still sick, and they have things to work out between them, besides.  His body doesn't listen.

     "Just getting to know you," Carver says softly, when he sees Cullen is awake.  "Didn't have a chance, last time.  Now, though, we've got more than one night."

     Oh, Maker.  Cullen shudders all over despite himself, and hopes that Carver does not think this is a shudder of revulsion.  He licks his lips, tries to control his breathing when it threatens to quicken.  Carver's mouth twitches; he probably notices, and he probably interprets Cullen's reaction just fine.

     "Always figured you'd have a bit of a gut," Carver says, sliding a hand over Cullen's abdomen.  Cullen's cock is in the way; Carver just nudges it aside, apparently ignoring the sound that Cullen makes at the mere touch of Carver's hand.  "Templar officers seem half politician and half merchant, always scheming.  You were actually doing your work on the ground, I guess; fuck all that back-room shit.  It shows.  You're fucking gorgeous."

     Cullen blushes a little, then sobers.  "Perhaps if I had been better at back-room dealings, the Gallows would not have gotten so bad.  The mages might have suffered less, at least..."  He sighs.  "Who can say?"

     Carver frowns.  "How bad did it get?  Brother told me a bit, which is why I sent that letter, but he couldn't come see about you too often.  He said it wasn't safe."

     "It wasn't."

     Cullen tells him of that last year, everything that's happened since the blissful night they spent together.  It is dark, sordid stuff, and by the time he's done telling it, his erection has flagged.  Carver looks horrified, then grim.

     "I thought about invoking the Right of Conscription for you," he says, to Cullen's surprise.  "You never looked _happy_ , Cullen.  Not being a Templar under those conditions."

     "I should have worked to make it better," Cullen says, looking away.

     Carver cups his face and turns it gently back.  "Even a great man can't do everything _by himself_.  The Hero of Ferelden had another Warden with her; that Warden became King of Ferelden with her help.  You want to change the world, you need someone to watch your back."

     He is so earnest as he says this.  Cullen takes his hand and kisses the palm.  "You, perhaps.  If you had been there."

     Carver blinks, then chuckles.  "Still mad I didn't join up?"  He sighs and sits up, stretching.  Cullen is pleased to see that all the mottling is gone:  Carver is smooth and golden-skinned in the early-morning light coming through the window.  "Eh, I'd have been a shitty Templar, Cullen.  I'm no good at politics. I couldn't have endured watching what those other fuckers did to the mages.  And I would have hated having to hide so much about myself to fit in.  Rather be a good Warden than a mediocre Templar."

     Cullen barely hears him.  Carver is _beautiful_ , all long sleek muscles and contained power, and just the sight of him has inflamed Cullen again.  He's not used to _lusting_ like this -- not so powerfully, not for someone who wants him back.  Is it sinful of him, or shallow, to look at a man and wonder how his skin might taste?

     Maybe it is.  But he wonders anyway.

     Cullen sits up on one elbow, and he cannot quite help himself when he blurts, "Carver.  I... Maker."

     Carver glances back at him.  There is a wicked look in his eye as he suddenly rolls over and props himself on one arm over Cullen so that Cullen can see -- and touch, if he dares -- all that magnificent smooth flesh.  And -- oh, oh -- he is hard, and getting harder, against Cullen's hip.  "Yeah?  You want something, Cull?"

     Cullen wants everything.  But...  He licks his lips.  He has done desperate things, mad things, for this man.  He cannot be the only one who wants.  His pride will not bear it.  "What do _you_ want?" 

     Carver seems to hear the questions beneath the question, because he grows serious.  His grin fades, and he reaches up to trace fingers across Cullen's brow.

     "I want to take the tired from your eyes," he says, softly.

     "What?"

     "The tired."  Carver's thumb glides down the bridge of Cullen's nose, grazes under one eye.  "It's always there.  Like you've got the weight of all the Maker's creation on your shoulders.  And you _bear_ it, that weight I mean, 'cause you're so fucking strong.  I don't even know you, not really, not yet, and I can see that.  But it takes its toll.  And..."  Carver shrugs a little, looking away, and his cheeks turn pink.  "I never liked that, when I used to see you in the Gallows yard.  I always wanted to, to make it go away.  The tired.  I couldn't before because I couldn't be with you, stay with you, I mean.  But now you're here, and...  That's what I want."

     Then he looks at Cullen, for once not smirking or angry or lascivious or anything but honest, and Cullen inhales because now, at last, he is sure that he has not made a mistake.

     So he reaches up and pulls Carver down, and for a time there is nothing but skin and limbs and rubbing.  Carver sees that Cullen is shaking again, that he is almost helpless with need, and so he shifts down and pushes Cullen's legs up and there is licking, and suckling, and the gentlest of nibbles, until Cullen buries his hands in Carver's hair and throws his head back and shouts something high and wild.  Then while Cullen lies dazed in the aftermath, Carver begins exploring him, taking his time as they could not on that first night in the Gallows.  He bites the hollow above Cullen's collarbone, and observes how he shudders.  He draws his fingers hard over the instep of Cullen's foot and grins when Cullen's toes curl and the rest of him curls with it.  He is gentle, and thorough, so Cullen notices what he is avoiding.  So, shyly, Cullen takes his hand and guides it to where he wants to be touched.  Carver hesitates.  "But -- "

     "Yes," Cullen says, emphatically.  He no longer fears demons.

     "You sure?"

     " _Please_."

     And then he is dying again, going mad again, because Carver's fingers are in him and Carver's mouth is on him and it is too much, too much, too much.  He loses himself to Carver's sweet tongue and is ashamed of his own lack of control.  But Carver only laughs softly and turns Cullen over, still working and curling and twisting those oiled fingers while Cullen twitches.

     "There's some good things about being a Warden, y'know," he says, and now he is lowering himself onto Cullen's back, and his fingers are gone but there is something else there, just as gentle, just as exquisite, sliding and stretching and slow.  Cullen whimpers at the stroke of Carver's breath against the back of his neck.  "Does all sorts of things for the -- nnh, Maker -- _appetites_.  You like this?"  He thrusts a little, just so, and Cullen utters a loose groan and half-melts beneath him.  "Yeah.  You like that."

     And then Carver is all the way inside him, and how is this new?  Carver has been in him for years now; this is only the literalization of what has always been. 

     Cullen sinks into in the gliding, steady burn of it.  Carver's unbelievably careful.  He keeps stroking Cullen's back and groaning against his skin and asking, "You all right?"  until Cullen finally clenches his fists and blurts, "I am _well_ , I am _bloody_ well, except that I would have you _harder_ for the Maker's sake, I am not a _woman_."  Which makes everything go all to pieces, in the best of ways.  That's when Carver laughs and pulls him closer and fucks him good and hard, until the room is jarring and blurring and Cullen is choking out cries that sound like pain but which are very much not, and his own orgasm catches him so completely by surprise that he screams with it.  But Carver shouts too, and they strain together, and that is the end.

     For the time being, anyhow.

     They go at each other for hours.  Days.  Cullen's not sure, he loses track of time, and it doesn't matter anyway.  It might be madness.  He might be hallucinating, maybe this is another lyrium dream and he's really back on the Wounded Coast in a cave, abandoned and dying, but it's so magnificent a dream that he doesn't care.  They fuck against the wall.  They fuck on the table.  They pause to bathe, because there's sticky stuff and oil _everywhere_ , and this time when Cullen watches Carver washing himself he is overcome with the desire to lick the water droplets from Carver's cock.  Carver lets him.  Swallowing this sweetness sets Cullen's belly a-rumble, so Carver chuckles and goes to the door to summon a servant and order a meal.  The servants are apparently used to this.  Cullen comes out of the fugue at various points to find that they have changed the bedsheets while he was bending Carver over a desk, or put a meal on the dresser because Cullen was getting sucked off on the table, and belatedly he is embarrassed.  But then Carver touches him again, and he stops caring.

     "We don't live long, we Wardens," Carver whispers in his ear, in the dark of the night while they are warm and close.  "This is all we get of life.  You really gonna waste it worrying about what other people think?"

     No.  No, Cullen will not. 

     "I shall waste _nothing_ ," he says, and pulls Carver closer for a kiss.

#

     There is a different reception for Cullen when he next visits the dining hall, this time with Carver in tow.

     Faren slumps down across from him, glaring at them both.  "The sod didn't you say you were Carver's rutting buddy?" he demands of Cullen.  "I wouldn't have tried to kill you."

     Carver laughs.  Cullen ducks his eyes modestly.  "A gentleman does not speak of such things, Serrah Faren." Which makes the whole room chuckle.  Faren shakes his head good-naturedly and moves away.  

     Cullen dares a look around, seeing something new in the faces of the Wardens.  Not respect, not yet, and not acceptance, but that is only fair.  For now it is enough that he is _Carver's lover_ and no longer _the enemy_.  He must establish himself as something beyond either label in his own time.  He means to do it soon, though.  Even if the chain of command is meaningless here, it still rankles that Carver outranks him.

     Across the room he catches Stroud watching them.  The Orlesian nods, unmistakable warmth in his expression, and Cullen is forced to revise his thinking of the man.  Perhaps Stroud was willing to take Cullen as a replacement for his valuable Warden Lieutenant... but Cullen can see now that Stroud _prefers_ to have Cullen as an addition.  As one half of a set.  With Cullen, Carver is stronger.  With both of them together, the Wardens are stronger.

     Then Carver says, "C'mon.  Let's go ask Stroud what needs killing."

     Yes.  There's much work to do, and it is past time they began it.  The world will not simply free itself from evil magic, after all.  Or evil men.

     So Cullen rises with Carver, checks his sword and settles his shield, and then they go forth stride for stride to see what needs setting right.

**Author's Note:**

> I really, really need to stop writing these long-ass stories. -_-
> 
> Anyway, so if you were wondering why Carver didn't appear at the end of "The Gate", this is why -- I'm playing a little bit with the timeline of things, but basically I figure things in Kirkwall went south a little faster than they did in the game, and Carver didn't have a chance to make it there before the endgame occurred. (The game's timeline is weird in this respect anyway.) But this is just an excuse -- if you can't tell, I'm really just writing this to see how Cullen might become a Warden, and how he'd do as such. In my head Cullen is such an upright, traditional-though-pragmatic, orderly sort of character, and he thrives in an environment that befits his nature -- e.g. the Gallows once he takes over, in the Templar Canticles. The Wardens do not befit his nature. If I write any future stories in this 'verse, it's going to be.... interesting, seeing how he reacts to that.
> 
> Once again there's a whole lot of real estate here to justify a little bit of fucking, and I guess that's OK because I'm as interested in the political/plot possibilities of this continuity as I am the romantic stuff. Not sure how far this will go, but two stories makes a series, so I guess we'll see.
> 
> Templar Canticles probably aren't done, note. Eh, who knows? My muse is doing whatever the hell she wants, anyway.


End file.
